


Where I'd Feel Safe

by hots



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: :(, Help, M/M, Sad Ending, lacho rights, uhhhh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:27:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27116078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hots/pseuds/hots
Summary: Nacho is generally unfamiliar with the concept of love. Lalo is a little too familiar.
Relationships: Eduardo "Lalo" Salamanca & Ignacio "Nacho" Varga
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Where I'd Feel Safe

**Author's Note:**

> well . here we go! basically nacho falls for this dumbass cartel dude knowing that he's totally fucked because he's double agent-ing for gus. will i finish this? or will it be too painful? stay tuned to find out

Oddly enough, the memory of their first meeting is far from a fond one. But if there could be a more inappropriate time for that memory to slip its way into Ignacio's mind, it's now. Right now. As he's waiting for the brutal assassination of the man he's somehow grown to care for. 

Fuck. 

***

"Got anything for us, babe?" Amber's voice feels like a dagger through his brain. Now that he thinks about it, it sounds like one, too. Nacho grits his teeth for a good five seconds, mentally berating himself for inviting the two most irritating hookers he could find back to his place. 

"Yeah, give me a minute," he calls back through clenched teeth. Not that it's their fault. Since that day in the kitchen, his typically rational thought process has devolved into... well, into a complete and total mess. 

"Babe?" Jo echoes.

"Coming," he yells. "Coming," he whispers again, this time to himself, under his breath. 

As he approaches the doorway, he tosses two bags of powder at Amber and Jo, collapsed on the floor and the couch, respectively. It takes all of his willpower not to scoff at them as both women fumble the catch and end up scrabbling on the rug. 

_Not that it's their fault,_ he reminds himself again. After all, he was the one who weaved in and out of the swarm of prostitutes in that club, sought out the ones that he assumed had the lowest IQs, extended warm invitations back to his house. 

"Nice job, Nachito," Lalo had said, clapping a firm hand on his shoulder. "Hey, you got my approval. Have fun, huh?" 

"Sure," Nacho had replied, almost instinctively. _Fun._ He recalled the pang that had shot through his chest and the immediate sensation of frantic denial. _Have fun? What's that supposed to mean?_ And then, the look Lalo had given him as he walked away with that irritatingly confident gait he had when he knew he was on the upper ground. The wink. It had taken all of Nacho's willpower to force his cheeks from reddening, even though it would have been nearly invisible under the blacklights. 

There was no question regarding Lalo’s incessant affection, but somehow, Nacho still questioned it. At the very least, he questioned the motives behind it. And why wouldn’t he? Lalo hugged, kissed, touched almost every person he met. It was confusing enough that Nacho had never felt like this towards anyone, and as far as his meager knowledge of Lalo’s romantic history went…

“Are you gonna join us? Or are you gonna make us party alone?” Amber’s voice jolts him back into the present, and he blinks in mild surprise before clearing his throat and shaking his head. 

“Nah, I think I’m okay for tonight. You two, go ahead.” Despite every nerve in his body telling him to resist, Nacho gazes up at himself in the mirror, ears roaring, face flushing. He vaguely registers a whine from Amber in the living room, but all he can hear is that maddeningly loud sentence, on constant repeat, as if scraping out a permanent wound in his mind, _“You can call me Lalo.”_

***

Nacho’s eyes tick back and forth like a crazed metronome between the steaming plate of food being waved under his nose and the man responsible for the waving. 

“Eh?” the man repeats, a positively shit-eating grin spreading across his face. The kind of grin that comes easily to him, the kind of grin that wordlessly beckons trust. Friendship. Care. The kind of grin to which Nacho has developed a thick skin. Because in this line of work, no one can ever truly be trusted. 

“No, thanks,” he murmurs. Is that the right amount of indifference? The last thing he wants to offend the man-- Lalo, was that his name? 

_Eduardo, but you can call me Lalo._

“You can’t say no. Are you crazy?” 

And for a brief, terrifying moment, he truly can’t. Time slows as his mind runs through a never-ending list of reasons why: the smile? The warmth in Lalo’s eyes? The way he holds the plate up to Nacho’s nose, wordlessly beckoning, asking--

“No, thanks,” he finds himself repeating. 

“I used _epazote,_ man, come on,” Lalo says. 

Nacho forces his eyes onto the man’s face and hardens his stare, expertly fixing his expression into one of tough indifference. One he hopes is solid enough to mask the foreign twist in the pit of his stomach. He shakes his head in response, somehow aware that if he opens his mouth to reply, he has no idea what might come out. 

Lalo’s eyes linger for a split second too long before he spins around on his heel, shrugging. “Very well,” he sighs, “You’re not hungry. That’s your problem.” There’s a touch of genuine disappointment in his tone that’s almost haunting. Nacho can’t recall the last time he felt obligated to do something as inconsequential as eat a meal for the sake of pleasing another person, especially someone he’s met not even a minute ago. Lalo continues, his voice a blur. _What’s he saying? Family recipe?_ The words fade in Nacho’s consciousness as soon as they appear, leaving oddly intimate traces of attentiveness. 

Lalo continues cooking, humming along to the upbeat song playing in El Michoacáno. 

“What are you doing here?” Nacho finally manages to ask. 

“Ah, I’m just here to lend a helping hand. Make sure the business is running in order.” 

Before Nacho gets the chance to respond, Lalo turns around again, tapping a finger against his head, winking. “I got a good head for numbers. But don’t worry. It’s gonna be like I’m not even here.” 

It takes all of Nacho’s willpower to maintain his stance in the doorway, arms folded to assert any sort of fabricated dominance in the situation. _But even more than that,_ he realizes, _to repress any indication that I’d want him to be here in the first place._ Because for some reason, he does. 

And with that, Lalo is striding out into the dining area. He tosses a casual glance back at the kitchen where Nacho stands, every muscle uncomfortably tense. There's something calculated about the look that sends chills down Nacho's spine. “Come on, Varga,” Lalo calls, and the smirk in his voice is painfully apparent. “Let’s go.” 

The knot in Nacho’s gut tightens as he hazily registers a quiet conclusion-- that sooner or later, this man will die. 


End file.
